A Team
by thelittlestoryteller
Summary: Basically Sherlock's life up until the start of series 1, based on the song A Team. Not slash! Warnings inside. Please review! You'll be my best friend :
1. Chapter 1

**Sherlock belongs to the BBC, A Team belongs to Ed Sheeran. Enjoy! Warning for drug use**

_lips, pale face_

_Breathing in snowflakes_

_Burnt lungs, sour taste_

Sherlock was lying curled up on his side, the concrete pavement cold against his face. He shivered in the stained sleeping bag he was currently hugging as close as possible to himself for warmth, his clothes far too thin and worn to insulate him against the sharp frost that had descended on London. He was dimly aware of crowds of people walking by him, most of them in a hurry, hastily walking by. Some stopped to look in the window of the clothes shop he had his back against, their eyes sliding past him to the designer labels draped decoratively on the slender mannequins. His appearance was toning down the glamour of the shop somewhat, an irate assistant was bound to come out and chase him away any minute. It would probably be wiser to move now but he just couldn't find the energy to haul himself up.

He instead entertained himself by deducing the people around him by their shoes. He spotted a poor young business man on his first day of his new job, a rich elderly woman who was on her way to lunch with her estranged son and a homeless hooker who had just finished with a client before his mind started to slow. He glanced in front of him at the still smoking joint lying on the gum littered pavement. He could feel some of the passers by staring at it in disgust. He failed to care any more how obvious it was that he was nothing but a homeless junkie. A do-gooder stopped in front of him, taking in the deathly pale face framed by dark matted curls for a minute before searching his pockets and throwing a hand-full of coins in front of him. He waited for a moment, seemingly for recognition of his meager donation before walking off looking slightly disgruntled. Sherlock hated these people. The ones who threw some change at a homeless stranger as if it made any difference to their welfare, just so they could feel as if they'd done some good in the world.

He sighed slowly, tired. He hoped he could catch a short nap before being thrown away from the relative warmth emanating from the shop. Before his eyes closed, he wondered to himself how his life had became this. The endless spiral of drugs and cold and hunger. He remembered his mother telling him long ago that he was destined for great things. He'd let her down, instead he was lying at the side of the street, starving, aching and high as a kite. Maybe if he'd done things differently. He tried to forget his predicament as he willed himself to sleep, pretending that he was back at his family home, in a soft warm bed.

**Basically lots of mini fics based on the song A Team. Will be adding more chapters soon, it gets better, don't worry. When I started it was just meant to be an account of Sherlock's life on the streets (which in my mind happened) but kind of ended up as his life up until the series started...please review, new to all this and really need constructive critisism! :)**


	2. Rent

**The next chapter. Warning for frug use**

_Light's gone, day's end_

_Struggling to pay rent_

_Long nights, strange men_

Sherlock sat on the unmade bed, one of the only pieces of furniture in the dark room. A good thing too, even without the aid of clutter the room was small and claustrophobic, if filled with possessions there would be no room to move. There was a wardrobe in the corner with a meager collection of clothes, a pile of books sat on a small table next to the single bed and a desk sat at the wall opposite, scattered with papers covered in feverish scribbles. It was the cheapest flat he could find, and still he was struggling with the rent. Mycroft was of course disapproving, going on about everything from the crime rate to the poor pest control. Sherlock defended the place, saying he didn't care where he lived, it was all just transport. Secretly he found the place just as disgusting as Mycroft, but he would rather die than ask Mycroft for money to find a more suitable living situation. He looked down at the wad of money clutched in his hand. He had just enough money to appease the landlord, but there was the problem of the drugs. He needed them. He was interrupted from his musings by a loud thump on his door.

He opened it and was greeted by the sight of his landlord. He looked like a pig squashed into human clothes, a beefy, bald, red faced man with a fierce temper and breath that always seemed to reek of alcohol. Sherlock scanned him over, taking in the rumpled clothes (just got up from sleeping all day, sleeps on his right side) the way his eyes squinted in the light of the landing (hung-over, nothing new there) the red eyes (been crying, most likely because his wife had recently walked out on him) and the hand curled into a fist (indicates anger, aggression) All in all he was not here for a friendly chat.

"Your rents late." The man rasped, taking a swig from the bottle clutched in his left hand.  
"I am aware of that." Sherlock remarked sarcastically. "I'll get it to you tomorrow."  
The man regarded him suspiciously before leaning in to Sherlock, "Look buddy, I know what your spending my rent money on, and I just want to warn you that If I don't get what's mine by tomorrow morning, your out." He gave Sherlock a menacing glare before stumbling away and down the stairs.

Sherlock closed the door and returned to staring at the money on the bed. The thought of paying the rent and going without the drugs sent panic through him. The drugs helped, they slowed everything down, stopped his mind from consuming itself. He wouldn't-_couldn't _go without them. But if he didn't pay the rent he would be kicked out, he wouldn't be able to afford anyone else. He thought of going to Mycroft but quickly dismissed the idea, he'd promised himself long ago that he would never accept help from him. He pondered for a while until the sky outside had grown deep blue. He made his decision. He reached for his phone and hurriedly typed a message to his dealer. "My flat. Cocaine." That was enough. He lay back on his bed and waited for the repercussions of his decision.

The next morning he was thrown out of the flat by a furious landlord, his few possessions collected in a black bin bag (which would soon be sold for money) and his drugs in his pocket. He reeled off some deductions about the man's love life before running away to avoid the punch to the face. And thus began Sherlock's life on the streets.

**Hope you liked it, please review! :)**


	3. Home:part 1

**Hope you like it :)**

_And they say _

_She's in the Class A Team_

_Stuck in her daydream_

_Been this way since 18_

Mycroft stared out of the window of the black cab at the bleak fields that surrounded the narrow country road. The heavens appeared to be trying to drown the area, the heavy rain lashing down from the grey sky mercilessly showing no indication of stopping. He wasn't an idiot; he knew the weather couldn't really reflect one's mood, but it was doing a damn good job of it. He closed his eyes and tried to forget what awaited him at his destination.

The car slowly rolled in front of the house (for want of a better word, manor might be more appropriate) crunching on the pebbled ground. The building was large and grand but slightly past its former splendor. The roof sagged more than it used too, the doors warped and the iron framed windows rusting. There was a certain feeling in the air that he couldn't describe.. As he got out the car and approached the house he realised the perfect word. The place was _lifeless. _

Mycroft took a deep breath and put his hand on the tall oak door of his childhood home. Perhaps it was a bit premature to be calling it his childhood home; he had left on his sixteenth birthday to attend university and had only just turned seventeen, not even a legal adult yet. He hadn't came back once in that year, due to his strained relationship with his father. In hindsight that now seemed a petty reason to stay away, why hadn't he visited? Even just for Christmas, or dropping in to exchange pleasantries over tea. It would have taken little to no effort. But instead he had put as much distance between himself and the house as possible, leaving it to fall apart in his absence.

He almost yelped in surprise when he finally pushed the creaking door open. Sherlock sat on the marble floor, hand wrapped around his knees, his head bowed. At the sound of the door opening his dark curls stopped quivering and he raised his head to look up at the newcomer. Mycroft quickly took in his appearance, the quaking body, the glistening ice blue eyes, the tears rolling down his cheeks and the dark bruise dramatically obscuring his left cheek.

**You'll have to wait till the next chorus to get the rest of the story! I know this one doesn't really have much to do with the lyrics, but I wanted to put it in somewhere so...please review! :)**


	4. Coming Clean:part 1

**My next chapter :) warning for mentions of drug use**

_But lately her face seems_

_Slowly sinking, wasting_

_Crumbling like pastries_

_And they scream_

_The worst things in life come free to us_

_Cos we're just under the upperhand_

_Go mad for a couple grams_

Mycroft was adamant, Sherlock was going to get clean whether he liked it or not.

Sherlock had stumbled to his house in the early hours of the morning before collapsing on his front steps, overdosed on cocaine. Mycroft had called his private doctors immediately after finding him, who had then preformed all the necessary duties to ensure his brother's health. He was now lying in the bed of Mycroft's spare room, unconscious for the time being. Mycroft was currently sitting at the end of said bed in a comfortable plush armchair simply observing his younger brother. He couldn't believe how much he'd changed in the past four years.

Sherlock had always been slender (something Mycroft secretly envied) but his appearance was now positively starved; his limbs were thin as twigs, and looked like they'd snap just as easily, his cheekbones protruding from his face more obviously then they used to, making his face look hollow and empty. His hair was disheveled and straggling to his shoulders, his lips cracked and his hands covered in sores from sleeping out in the cold London nights. There was also the many needle marks peppering his arms, scratches where his hand had shook as he punctured the skin in his haste to give himself some relief. His clothes were lying next to the bed, having been exchanged for a hospital gown on arrival. Though in Mycroft's mind rags was a better word for the clothing Sherlock had been wearing.

Mycroft wondered how his brother had come to this. When he was younger Mycroft had always thought that Sherlock would grow up to be a scientist of a philosopher, someone admired and treasured for his genius. Sherlock however had not seen this future for himself and had dropped out of university in his third year at the age of 19. He had drifted about for a year living in various cheap accommodations and doing odd jobs when he was short of cash. Mycroft had of course offered him financial support on multiple occasions but Sherlock was long past accepting help from him. Then of course Sherlock had run out of money, not paid the rent and retired to a life on the streets. And he still had not asked Mycroft for help, it had taken him to be at the brink of death to kneel down at Mycroft's steps. Had their relationship really deteriorated that far? Mycroft could still remember the small boy with bold dark curls who would sit on his lap and ask him to read a story, predominantly of pirate genre. When had that bright young boy been exchanged for the sociopath addict who lay before him?

Mycroft was roused from his thoughts as the pale figure in the bed began to stir. Bloodshot heavy eyes flickered open and his deep voice croaked "Where the hell am I?"

**Once again you'll have to wait for the next chorus for the rest of the story. Thank you to MoriartyandHisTardis and phanpiggy for reviewing, you have no idea how happy it makes me to log on and see a review! XD**


	5. Need:part 1

**Hey fellow Sherlockians! next chapter for your enjoyment :) warning for drug use.**

_And she don't want to go outside tonight_

_And in a pipe she flies to the Motherland_

_Or sells love to another man_

_It's too cold outside_

_For angels to fly_

_ Angels to fly _

Sherlock was glad for the silence that filled the room. His dorm was shared with another student, a Victor Trevor, whom he failed to see the reason for his attending the university, for he did little to no work. He was an annoying and insufferable character, constantly insisting that Sherlock "loosen up and have some fun." He would try and invite him to parties which Sherlock refused. There was only on thing worse than being in a room filled with idiots and that was being in a room filled with drunk idiots.

Sherlock put down the large chemistry volume he was reading from and gave a dramatic sigh. He was so BORED. He had hoped thatCambridgewould offer some more academic conversations with people not as idiotic as the rest of the world seemed to be, alas it was not to be. Even the professors were stupid, their information was outdated and they would make mistakes. They were not grateful when he pointed them out in front of the rest of the class.

If he just had something interesting to do…an experiment of some sort. He was contemplating where he could find a human liver when Victor burst into the room. "Sherlock buddy!" He exclaimed. He then proceeded to slap Sherlock hard on the back before starting a long monologue about what had happened on the way to the dorm, waving his arms about and jumping around the room. This was strange behaviour even for Victor, he was jittery and couldn't seem to stay still, his eyes alight as he rambled-ah. His eyes.

His roommate's pupils were dilated, indicating drug use. Going by his compulsion to move about, his fast breathing and his extreme talkativeness Sherlock deduced that he was currently high on cocaine.

"Having a little experiment are we?" Sherlock remarked sarcastically. Victor seemed not to grasp the meaning of the comment for a minute before responding.  
"Yeah, but it's a secret okay? Shhh." He whispered in Sherlock's ear before giggling manically. Sherlock just rolled his eyes.  
"Do you want some?" Victor asked, his voice hushed as he produced a bag of white powder from his pocket.  
"Yes, I would just love to completely lose all my inhibitions." He said, his voice sharp and sarcastic. But inside he considered it. Could this be the distraction he was searching for? It would be an experiment certainly.  
"It makes you feel _great._" Victor coaxed, smiling like an idiot. Did Sherlock really want to lower himself to this level just to stop being bored?

He snatched the bag of fine powder from Victor's hand, holding it up to light to inspect it.  
"20 quid" Victor interjected. Sherlock out a hand in his pocket and fished out a note, tossed it to Victor and opened the bag.

**Thank you for reading :) Next part next chorus, blah blah blah. Pleae review!**_  
_


	6. Lestrade

**Next chapter for your pleasure :) Warning for drug use**

_Ripped gloves, raincoat_

_Tried to swim, stay afloat_

Lestrade was tired.

It had been a long day, and now he had been called out to investigate an apparent overdose at the other side of town. A Jane Doe had been found in an alleyway with a toxic amount of heroin in her system. Forget apparent, that seemed pretty self explanatory to Lestrade. But they couldn't just write it off as a suicide/accidental death without investigating first.

So that was how Lestrade found himself dead on his feet in a filthy alleyway on the opposite side of London from his warm bed. Anderson was waiting for him to the left of the body, his expression one of annoyance. "Let's get this over with then." Lestrade said wearily.  
"Death from heroin in the bloodstream, the drug was injected by her and needle marks on the arms indicate prior use."Anderson drawled. "Just a junkie who overdosed." He concluded smugly.  
"Right well if that's that then…" Lestrade trailed off, it seemed so pointless to just come out here to do nothing but hea rAnderson's report. He could have phoned him to find that out.  
"Well sir, we've also got the person who discovered the body."Anderson told him, a hint of exasperation in his voice.  
"Well send him up to Scotland Yard to fill out a report." Lestrade commented irately. Why was he still here?  
"He's demanding to talk to the person in charge of the case."Anderson remarked with an added eye roll. "He's over beside the police car."

Lestrade turned around and looked back the way he'd came to see a tall figure standing next to one of he police cars parked next to the pavement marking the entrance to the alleyway. He was tall and wiry with a mop of dark curled hair, leaning with his back against the police car as if bored. As Lestrade approached him he began to see the finer details of his appearance; his clothes were mix-matched and shabby consisting of tracksuit bottoms, ripped gloves, a black raincoat and a navy scarf. He wasn't just thin; he was starved looking, his body spindly and his face hollow. What caught Lestrade's attention the most however was his eyes. His pupils were blown wider than Lestrade had thought possible. As he neared the man (who he supposed was more of a kid than a man) he snapped his head up to stare at him.

"Ah! You must be in charge of the case. What conclusion have you come to?" Lestrade opened his mouth to tell him that it was none of his concern but the strange kid had started up again. "Never mind, it's wrong anyhow. You think she overdosed, either accidentally or on purpose, but if you actually stop to look at the scene you will see that is not the case." Lestrade wasn't quite sure what to say to this obviously high kid who seemed to think that he knew more than the police about the crime.  
"Do you have any evidence to prove that?" He asked doubtfully.  
"I don't need evidence, you just need to observe." The kid sighed dramatically. "Angel, your Jane Doe, doesn't regularly take heroin, she is a cocaine addict. I know because we both use the same dealer and if you look at the needle marks on her arms none of them have any bruising whatsoever around them, indicating that they were made after death to disguise the fact that she wasn't a frequent user. The fatal injection was self administered however, and I would conclude that it was under duress from the way her hand obviously shook when she injected the drug. The murderer was smart enough to know better than to inject the drug himself as the police would recognise the signs, so he used some form of weapon to intimidate her into injecting herself (most likely a gun) and then covered her in the other marks after. From the way she is dressed it is obvious that she is a prostitute, I know she was having money problems as she was having arguments with her dealer about money she owed him. Your most likely looking for a rich ex-client of hers that she attempted to black mail but refused to hand over the money." He rattled this all of in one breath, leaving a gob smacked Lestrade to try and take in all that he had siad.

"But how-you do realise that you just admitted to buying drugs in front of a police officer?" Lestrade decided to go for the most pressing matter of what the kid had just said. He raised an eyebrow at him as if it was a stupid question.  
"Yes, but I can tell that you are extremely moral and I just gave you a lead, you won't turn me in because then it would be on your conscience. Moral people are so easy to manipulate." The kid stood up from his relaxed position and strode purposefully away from the crime scene, leaving a confused Lestrade in his wake. "Wait!" Lestrade called after him. Unsure what to ask he settled with yelling "What's your name?"  
"Sherlock Holmes." He called back without turning around.

**This one was fun to write, I love writing interactions between Sherlock and Lestrade. Hope you enjoyed it! thank you to and phanpiggy for reviewing, means a lot! :D**


	7. Charity

**Enjoy :) Warning for mentions of drug use (this is pretty much a given for almost all the chapters)**

_Dry house, wet clothes_

Lestrade was walking home from work on a cold, rainy winter's night, holding onto his hood for dear life in an attempt to stay dry. It was only 7:00pm but the overcast sky made the street dark, even with the glowing orange lamp posts that stood at the side of the pavement. Lestrade's pace quickened as he neared his apartment building. In his eagerness to reach somewhere warm and dry he almost missed the figure sitting on the pavement in front of it.

The figure had his head bowed, so all Lestrade could she was a shock of dripping dark curls. As he came near him however the figure's head snapped up and Lestrade instantly recognised him. It was the kid, Sherlock, from the case over a week ago.  
"You all right there mate?" Lestrade asked uncomfortably, not quite sure what to say in the situation. That seemed to be happening quite a lot with the kid.  
"I came…I was going to…" He spoke quietly, sounding confused. Lestrade bent down slightly to get a better look at his eyes, and saw yet again that his pupils were blown wide. The drug seemed to be having more of an effect on him this time however. He also noticed the way the man was shivering, his teeth chattering and his lips almost blue. Lestrade opened his mouth to offer him some warmth but hesitated. Did he really want to invite a homeless junkie into his flat? It seemed a ridiculous and potentially dangerous thing to do, and Jessica wouldn't- but that didn't matter anymore Lestrade reminded himself grimly. He couldn't leave what was no more than a kid sitting outside his apartment in the pouring rain with a clean conscience.  
"Do you want to come inside?" Lestrade asked the kid. He seemed to consider it for a moment before nodding in confirmation.  
"Come on then." Lestrade gently took his arm and led him up the stairs to his flat.

As they entered the small space Lestrade realised what a mess it looked, there were stacks of dirty dishes piled up in the sink, files and paperwork scattered messily over the coffee table and stray pieces of clothing scattered on the floor from the morning when he had been unable to find his work trousers. Looking at the kid however he didn't suppose it mattered, the poor sod just seemed glad to have some shelter.  
"We've only got one bed; you'll have to sleep on the sofa." He explained to the boy. When he didn't respond he tapped him lightly on the shoulder, bringing him out of his daze.  
"Sofa." Lestrade said gesturing towards the piece of furniture. The kid walked over and plopped himself down on it, falling asleep instantly.  
"Right then." Lestrade muttered under his breath. He made himself dinner as quietly as possible and ate it in his room, not wanting to wake his guest.

The next morning Lestrade walked into the living room straightening his tie to find it empty. His first thoughts were that the kid had done a runner with his stuff but everything seemed to be in place. As he scanned the room for anything missing he noticed a scrap of white paper lying where the kid had been last night. He picked it up and read; "I just came to enquire if I was correct about the case, I looked through your case files and it seems I was. I knew I was of course, but I was just checking to see if you'd listened to me. Thank you for the sofa, it was much appreciated." Under that the name Sherlock Holmes was scrawled in an elegant script. "P.S. The double homicide was the brother, check his kitchen. And your wife will return back in due time, but watch out for that P.E. teacher."

Lestrade couldn't help it, he laughed.

**What do you think? Review and tell me! :)**


	8. Gifts

**New chapter :) Warning for implied drug use.**

_Loose change, bank notes_

Once or twice a week Lestrade would see Sherlock in the park. He walked through it to get to and from work and would eat his lunch there when the weather was good, and every so often Sherlock would be sitting on a bench, violin in hand and a cup for money at his feet. He was a damn good player, that much Lestrade was sure of. He didn't seem to stick to one tune, he would play legato one minute, swirling bows and high notes. The next he would be playing staccato, short and sharp low notes. His music would shift moods, sad to happy, angry to content. Lestrade stopped in front of him to listen the first time he saw him. Sherlock had his eyes closed, completely immersed in the music, and Lestrade couldn't bring himself to interrupt his reverie by speaking, so he simply dropped a five pound note and a few coins into the paper cup at Sherlock's feet. At the sound of clinking money Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and Lestrade could see recognition in them. He could also see that for the first time his pupils were normal size, his eyes icy blue and focused. Lestrade just nodded at him and walked on, and Sherlock smiled before closing his eyes and continuing.

This went on for a while, Lestrade would see Sherlock in the park, stop and listen for a moment before dropping money in the cup and continuing. One day however Sherlock broke the routine, after the money had been dropped into the cup Sherlock stopped playing and put down his violin. Lestrade raised an eyebrow in unspoken question.  
"Doesn't it bother you?" Sherlock asked.  
"What?"  
"You know what I use the money for." Sherlock replied, the implications written on his face.  
"I do, and I don't approve" Lestrade commented "But your smart, and I hope that one day you'll be smart enough to use the money for something else." He told him truthfully. "And consider it thanks for those cases you solved." And with that he walked off, for once not followed by the sound of a violin, but the sound of gratitude.

**Hope you like :D thanks to phanpiggy and IamthePhantomoftheOpera for reviewing!**


	9. Help

******I am so sorry it took me so long to upload this! I've been neglecting my homework recently so had to catch up on that (ugh, reports). I did have this pre written ready to upload a couple days ago but didnt like it so rewrote it, didn't like _that_ so rewrote it again. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! :D Warning for mild swearing.**

Lestrade felt like shit. That seemed the best way of summarisng the way his limbs ached, his head pounded and his throat burned. If he looked on the brighter side he could say that he had least got time off work, but then the pessimistic side of him would cut in and remind him of the fact that he was too damn ill to appreciate it. His doctor was trying to convince him that he just had a common cold and refused to give him any decent medication. Lestrade tried convincing him that he had flu or something worse, but to no avail. He wanted nothing more than to just sleep until his body decided to kick out the offending bacteria and return to normal.

Alas, some higher power decided that Lestrade wasn't going to have a good day.

If he hadn't been so self absorbed in his misery and consequently unaware of his surroundings, he might have heard the clicks as the lock of his front door was picked. However he was just on the verge of drifting into a feverish sleep, so didn't notice his flat had been invaded until a tall dark figure was standing beside his bed.  
"What the hell?" He exclaimed as he saw the stranger. As his bleary eyes focused he realised it was Sherlock.  
"What the hell are you doing in my flat?" He asked angrily, his voice hoarse and croaky, and not as authoritive as he would have liked to sound. Sherlock started to speak but Lestrade cut in "How the hell did you get in here anyway?" He asked.  
"I picked the lock, very easily I might add. You might want to update your security." Sherlock replied casually.  
"And may I ask why you broke into my flat?" He retorted, pinching the bridge of his nose as he spoke. If there was one person who could make a headache worse, it was Sherlock. Sherlock sighed dramatically before answering.  
"I happened to be on the site of a murder-" He was cut off by Lestrade's snort of disbelief. He frowned before continuing: "I _happened _to be on the site of a murder when the police showed up (incompetent idiots). I tried telling them how the victim had been killed but they seemed to think that I had something to do with the murder-"  
"Oh God." Lestrade groaned. "I have a homeless junkie on the run from the police in my flat?"  
"No." Sherlock snapped. "I'm not on the run from the police, I'm simply avoiding them." He smirked. "Anyway, they didn't exactly get a chance to arrest me, I ran off before they could get the handcuffs on me."

"What made you come here?" Lestrade asked annoyed. He had been more than hospitable to the strange kid, but this was crossing the line. Did he realise how much trouble he would be in if it was discovered he was hiding from the police in his flat?  
Sherlock shuffled uneasily at the question, as if embarrassed. "I was wondering where you were." He admitted, his eyes trained on the window instead of Lestrade.  
"Where I was?" Lestrade asked.  
"You weren't at the crime scene or at the park today, and I was just…" He tailed off unsure how to finish the sentence.  
"You were worried about me?" Lestrade asked, amused. He had never seen Sherlock show anything close to caring before.  
Sherlock scowled at him. "Well if you were to disappear I would be substantially low on funds." He said. Lestrade saw past the cover up. Damn, Sherlock Holmes actually had a heart.

Lestrade smiled at him before announcing "I better go sort out this mess then." He got slowly out of the bed and went to the kitchen for his phone so he could call his boss and convince him to let Sherlock off the hook. His boss was not best pleased, but agreed not to arrest him unless they came across conclusive proof other than him being an arrogant prick at the crime scene. After croaking goodbye and putting down the phone he turned around to see Sherlock standing in front of him. "I seem to owe you quite a lot." He stated matter of factly. Lestrade took that as his way of saying thanks.

"Well, you did solve those two cases for me." He reminded him. It was true that those would have probably went wrongly concluded or cold case if Sherlock hadn't intervened. Sherlock just nodded and departed, leaving a sick Lestrade alone again. When he went into his room however there was a mug of tea sitting and a couple of pills on his bedside table. He drank the tea gratefully and let it sooth his throat, but decided to give the pills a miss considering he had no clue what they were and had been given to him by a junkie. All the same, he appreciated that Sherlock Holmes had actually tried to help someone. If only Sherlock could help himself Lestrade thought as he drifted once again into sleep.

**If you can't already tell I'm a "Lestrade and Sherlock are friends" supporter. I just love writing about them together! Thanks to LinzPhantom, phanpiggy and IamthePhantomoftheOpera for reviewing. Am I sending out some sort of vibe that attracts phantom of the opera fans? Just curious :P Please review!**


	10. Phone

**I am so, so sorry! I'd meant to have this all up by last week, but writers block got in the way :( I had no clue what to do for this chapter until yesterday. Good news is though that I didn't write these in order, and this is my last one, so will be uploading a chapter a day from now on! :D Enjoy! Warning for reference to drugs and violence.**

_Call girl, no phone_

Sherlock was trying very hard not to panic. And failing.

He had been buying cocaine from a supplier when an earlier customer had approached and started an argument with the dealer, claiming he had mixed her cocaine with something undesirable and was demanding her money back. Sherlock realised he knew the girl, Angel. She was 19 years old, a runaway who decided that life on the streets was preferable to life with her father. She and Sherlock would meet up sometimes on the streets entirely by accident, but she was actually rather good at reading people, and they had spent days sitting on the pavement and deducing the life stories of the people passing by. He supposed she was a close acquaintance, maybe what normal people would call a friend. Dealers were at best irritable, it seemed to be a trait they all shared, and this one had a particularly short temper. He had told the her to back off (or words to that effect) and when she had refused, he lashed out. He had punched her right in the face stunning the girl but after she recovered from the initial shock she gave as good as she got. Sherlock watched the scuffle from the sidelines, mildly interested but mostly impatient. He knew Angel would be okay, she was tough and would walk off any damage done, he just wanted a fix. He wasn't really bothered if the cocaine was pure or not, as long as he could get high on it. He was relieved to see from Angel's body language that she was planning on ending the fight, and she gave the dealer one last punch to the nose. She had punched hard and broke it, and rather more unfortunately for her, his pride. He would not stand for the young girl beating him in a fight and seeing as red as the blood spurting from his nose, he pulled out a knife which he quickly stabbed into her chest before pulling it out and running away.

Sherlock was for once in shock. He stood still for a minute watching the man run away, only breaking out of his trance when Angel collapsed to the ground. He rushed towards her and assessed her position. She was okay for now but if she didn't get some help soon she would die from blood loss. For the first time since retiring to life on the streets Sherlock wished he had his phone, he had sold it for money within the first few days of his new life, mainly due to the fact that Mycroft kept trying to contact him once he's realised he'd disappeared. He had also had a sneaking suspicion that he could trace him with it, and was all too happy to dispose of it. It seemed a stupid idea to get rid of it now, even though he had not had need for it until now. He tried to think of a way to contact help but panic kept bubbling up and disrupting his thoughts. This was exactly why he kept himself distant, both from emotions and people. It blinded him and clouded his thoughts, and right now he needed to think. He took Angels pulse, and although she was unconscious her pulse was still steady. Although it would probably be preferable if it was slow, it would mean there was more blood in her body than staining the ground crimson. He decided the best course of action was to leave Angel here for the time being and try to find help. He took a look at the girls pale demeanor and covered her with his jacket before half running out the alleyway and into the council estate street. He searched around for a likely helper but the place was mostly empty and the few people hanging about would probably refuse to help for fear of being dragged into a police investigation, so Sherlock ran further up the street.

If you were to ask Lestrade how he thought he had managed to be in just the right place at just the right time he would probably tell you it was "damn good luck." Sherlock would scoff at this and tell you that there is no such things as luck, and then go on to explain probability and consequence until you hastily make up an excuse to leave. Whatever you choose to believe, it so happened that there was a police car and a certain detective inspector parked outside a flat not 5 minutes away from Angel. Sherlock had no luck finding someone likely to help so approached the flat with the thought of finding a phone and dialing 999 but upon seeing the police car changed his plans and ran towards it. Lestrade had just been investigating a suicide inside the flats (which was just what it seemed) and was walking back to the police car, when Sherlock ran up and skidded to a stop in front of him. He looked more bedraggled than usual, his hair sticking up every which way and his clothes covered in dirt and…Lestrade's eyes widened, was that _blood?_

"Sherlock?" He said, hoping for an explanation.  
"Need your help, down the road there, been stabbed." He spoke quickly, slightly breathless from running.  
"Wait, what?" Lestrade asked confused. Who had been stabbed? Sherlock made a noise of impatience and took the mobile Lestrade was holding out his hand and dialled 999.  
"Tell them to come now!" He exclaimed holding the phone back out to him. A bemused Lestrade took the phone and told the person on the end of the line the address Sherlock told him and told them to be quick before hanging up.  
"Sherlock, what's happening, who's been stabbed?" Lestrade asked.  
"I'll explain on the way." Sherlock said impatiently, already rushing off. Lestrade sighed exasperatedly but followed quickly, sensing Sherlock's haste and realising that things had to be bad if Sherlock was worried.

They arrived at the entrance to the alleyway just before the ambulance did, it was thankfully fast due to the hospital being close, and the fact that they had been summoned by the police helped. Sherlock directed the medics towards where Angel lay and they hurriedly lay her on a stretcher and carefully took her back to the ambulance. "Christ" Lestrade muttered under his breath as he got a glimpse of the girl. She was white as a sheet and her clothes stained in blood, her eyes closed as if she was sleeping or... Lestrade looked at Sherlock who was animatedly scolding the medics for their handling of the stretcher rambling something about weight distribution and how simple physics would suffice in making them more competent at their job. All in all, he didn't seem too affected by a girl almost being murdered in front of him. As the ambulance drove away Lestrade approached him. "Is she a friend of your's then?" He asked, curious.  
"I don't have friends." Sherlock scoffed.  
"What, none?" Lestrade asked, disbelieving. Surely even Sherlock Holmes had friends?  
"Friends implies a certain level of attachment and I consider myself above such emotions." Sherlock told him. The things that kid came out with.  
"Of course you are, that's why you were so panicked when you ran up to me looking for a phone." Lestrade remarked sarcastically.  
"If she had died I would no doubt come under investigation, I was only-"  
"I know." Lestrade said, giving the kid a pat on the shoulder and in return receiving an extremely icy glare.  
"You're lucky I was there." Lestrade reminded him. "I don't want to think about what could have happened if you hadn't found a phone."  
"There is no such thing as luck, the odds that I would meet-"  
"You could just say thanks." Lestrade told him. Sherlock scowled at being interrupted again but sighed.  
"Thank you." He said, his arms crossed.  
"Your welcome." Lestrade said pleasantly. "Now, you're a witness so you're going to need to come down to the police station with me." Before Sherlock could argue he added "I'll let you look at some case files." Sherlock hesitated before following the man back towards the police car.

**I don't actually like this one much but oh well, hope you liked it! I'm thinking of doing a spin off story about Sherlock and Angel, what do you think? Thanks to phanpiggy, LinzPhantom, MoriartyandHisTardis and IamthePhantomoftheOpera for reviewing!**


	11. Home:part 2

**New chapter! You might want to go back and read the first part of this but it might make sense without it. Enjoy! :D Warning for child abuse and implied suicide.**

_And they say  
__She's in the Class A Team  
__Stuck in her daydream  
__Been this way since 18_

"Sherlock?" Mycroft said quietly. He had expected him to be distraught, any child would be. He was more concerned as to how the dark bruise came to be on his face. It was obviously fresh, probably made yesterday. Yesterday. Mycroft wanted to whisk his ten year old brother away from the place after what had happened. Yesterday their mother had died. She had been hit by a car, the circumstances of how this came to be were hazy. Witnesses said she just walked out onto the road, so there was the question of if she had…but that wasn't what mattered at this moment.

"Sherlock what happened?" Mycroft asked with more authority in his voice this time. Sherlock swallowed before answering."Father g-got angry" He stammered. "Because I asked if m-mother had meant to g-get hit." Mycroft felt anger begin to course around his body. How dare his father do this? He knew he had a bad temper but to hit his own son was unforgivable. Mycroft let out a shuddering breath before composing himself. He would have a talk with father when Sherlock was out of the way. On the subject of father however, Mycroft realised he hadn't appeared when he had arrived.  
"Where is father Sherlock?" Mycroft asked his brother gently.  
"His study." Sherlock sniffed.  
Mycroft smiled at him. "Why don't you go up to your room Sherlock, I'm going to talk to father." He said, trying to sound unconcerned. It didn't work, Sherlock's eyes widened as he realised what "have a talk" entailed. He hesitated before telling him: "Don't make him angry." And scurrying off.

Mycroft walked along the corridor to his right to where he knew his father's study was situated. It was a splendid room, a large oak desk in the middle where his father worked surrounded by tall bookcases overflowing with countless volumes of books. It was also where Mycroft knew his father kept a bottle of whiskey in the top left drawer of his desk. As he opened the door he saw his father sitting behind the desk with his head in his hands and a half empty bottle of expensive amber liquid on his left. Mycroft cleared his throat.  
"Father?" He looked up and Mycroft saw his red rimmed eyes, his silver hair bushy and untamed and wrinkles that seemed to have appeared over the year he had been away.  
"Mycroft." His father slurred, smiling as if pleased to see him. "Haven't seen you for a while."  
"Yes, well…" Mycroft was unsure of how to respond, which was uncommon for him. "In the circumstances." He said simply.  
"Yes, yes." His father's face fell as he remembered the reason for Mycroft's visit. "Funeral's tomorrow." He rasped before taking another swig of the alcohol.  
"Yes." Mycroft took a breath. It was now or never. "You and Sherlock seem to have had a disagreement." His father's face clouded at the statement.  
"He was asking questions he shouldn't." He remarked darkly.  
"Well you dealt with it quite violently by the looks of it. Have you seen what you've done to his face?" Mycroft asked him, the volume of his voice rising. His father sagged at the statement.  
"Didn't mean to…" He muttered. "Was an accident." He finished.  
"Well you better make sure it doesn't happen again." Mycroft brought his fist down on the table, almost shouting now. His father regarded him with narrowed eyes for a moment before responding.  
"It won't." He said quietly. This was the moment that Mycroft made the biggest mistake of his life, the thing he would always live to regret. He gave the man a chance.

The weather on the day of the funeral was no longer reflecting Mycroft's mood, and instead decided to be bright and sunny. It seemed almost inappropriate how cheerful the weather was. The funeral was short, and neither brother cried. Their father bowed his head every so often to take a swig out of a hidden bottle. The minister said words like "bright and cheerful woman" and the coffin had lilies on it, even though Mycroft knew his mothers favourite flowers to be roses. Mycroft stayed for a few days before departing, convinced by his father's behaviour that Sherlock's bruise was a one off. And Sherlock never forgave him for it.

**Like it? Then review! Thank you to ApocalypseCat (which is an awesome name btw) and phanpiggy for doing just that! :D**


	12. Coming Clean:part 2

**Hey peeps :) new chapter for your reading pleasure, enjoy! **

_But lately her face seems  
__Slowly sinking, wasting.  
__Crumbling like pastries  
__And they scream  
__The worst things in life come free to us  
__Cos we're just under the upperhand  
__And go mad for a couple grams_

Mycroft gave Sherlock a rather sarcastic smile before answering "I hope the drugs haven't dulled your mind so much that you can no longer deduce your surroundings, you are in my spare room."  
"Why?" Sherlock enquired angrily.  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow "If you care to cast your mind back to last night I think you'll find that you overdosed and came here for help."  
Sherlock look confused, he obviously had been too high to remember.  
"What's the last thing you remember? Mycroft prompted.  
"I remember taking cocaine…" Sherlock trailed off.  
"Is that all?" Mycroft asked.  
Sherlock nodded, his brow furrowed at the frustration of his memory failing him.  
"Well I've recovered now, thank you dear brother for your hospitality, but I think I must be off now. Goodbye." Sherlock said as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and approached the door. He tried to turn the golden door knob but it refused to move.

"You're not leaving Sherlock, your going to stay here until you are clean." Mycroft told his brother wearily, ready for the onslaught that was bound to follow the statement. Sure enough Sherlock whipped around seething with rage.  
"You can't keep me here against my will." He spat.  
"I can and shall. You will stay here for at least two weeks until your withdrawal symptoms cease. Then you will move into a flat I have bought for you." Mycroft told Sherlock matter-of-factly. As he opened his mouth to protest he continued. "You can not continue living your life like this Sherlock. I am not going to stand idly by and watch you destroy yourself." There was a moment of silence. Then Sherlock slid back into the bed and turned his back on his brother. Mycroft smiled at his brother's back and left the room, knowing that he would sulk for at least a day.

**Kind of short but hey, review! Please? Thank you to phanpiggy and SWBloodwolf for reviewing :D**


	13. Need:part 2

**Hi to all you Sherlock fans! Another chapter, hope you like! :) warning for drug use.**

_And she don't want to go outside tonight  
And in a pipe she flies to the Motherland  
Or sells love to another man  
It's too cold outside  
For angels to fly_

He had never felt this blissfully happy in his life. The boredom and, he admitted to himself, the loneliness seemed to melt away, nothing mattered anymore. Everything was so perfectly clear and focused, he could see _everything_. He was vaguely aware of Victor giggling in his ear and pulling him by the arm somewhere, but he was too busy looking at previously trivial things like his own hand, which seemed so much more interesting, to notice.

He realised with a surprise that they were entering a nightclub. He couldn't really remember the journey here, but that seemed trivial. He was much more interested in the club thriving with people. Normally a full room like this would make him feel uncomfortable and out of place, but the drugs gave him confidence. He found himself dancing with various people, snogging a couple too. It was a new experience for him and he loved it The night passed in a blur of colour and sound, and Sherlock tried to remember every detail but found his memory growing hazy and his thoughts more incoherent. He decided this shouldn't bother him however and instead took another drink off a pretty redhead standing beside him and a pill that Victor had given him earlier which he promised would "Really liven things up." He took it and downed the drink before taking to the dance floor with the girl. Not long after the she asked if he wanted to "go back to her place for their own party." He was beginning to feel dizzy and couldn't really form an answer but he must have made some sign of consent as he found himself outside the club with her. She smiled at him and started to walk ahead, Sherlock tried to follow but his legs refused to obey and the world started to swim out of focus. He swayed on the spot for a second before collapsing in a heap on the filthy pavement.

**Again this is kinda short but hey, quantity isn't quality! Damn that's cheesy. Review and stuff, thanks to LinzPhantom and phanpiggy for being cool and doing that. Wanna be cool? Review!**


	14. Coming Clean:part 3

**Heyaa :) New chapter! What's this? A continuation of Coming Clean before the next chorus? Yes! Enjoy! :D Warning for drug use and attempted suicide (these warnings really give the plot away)**

_An angel will die  
__Covered in white  
__Closed eye  
__And hoping for a better life  
__This time, we'll fade out tonight  
__Straight down the line_

Sherlock had lied.

He remembered what had happened. Most of it, anyway He remembered going to the dealer and requesting more cocaine than was medically safe. He remembered finding a quiet alleyway. And he remembered thinking that he was going to die a boring,_ ordinary _death, cold and alone. He was past caring however, and as he plunged the needle into the crook of his arm a smile flitted across his lips at the content feeling pumping around his veins. He wondered if anyone would find him but concluded that if anyone did they wouldn't stop to help him. If his life was to fade out of the world on the unremarkable September Tuesday night, no one would bat an eyelid. Mycroft acted like he cared about him, but he saw through that to the man who put up with him for the sake of family. He supposed Lestrade regarded him as almost a friend but all he really was to him was a burden, taking his money and his hospitality in exchange for the answers to a couple of questions. The only other person in the world who would care if Sherlock Holmes lived or died was Angel and she was dead. Sucked from the world in much the same way as he was about to go, though rather more forcibly than him.

He was sure he had that clichéd moment where his life flashed before his eyes but he couldn't recall the exact pictures. But as he flickered in and out of tired existence a phrase broke clearly through the haze in his mind. "It takes more courage to live than to die." Now, Sherlock had always been the most stubborn of characters, if someone told him that he couldn't do something then he was sure to try. And at this small sentence he saw a challenge. If dying made him a coward then he would make sure he lived, just to show the world that they hadn't beaten him yet. He struggled off the damp and dirty floor and staggered onto the street, half forming plans on how to find help.

He couldn't remember anything after that and certainly couldn't recall how he had managed to stumble onto Mycroft's front steps. And although he wouldn't admit it even to himself, he was glad. Because maybe what he thought he had seen was wrong and someone in the big bad world cared. And perhaps that would make his struggle easier.

**Don't ask about why I said the big bad world...I don't have an answer but don't want to change it. Another short one, I swear I'm not doing this on purpose, they just keep coming out this way. Review please! Thank you to phanpiggy and SWBloodwolf for being cool :) **


	15. Home:part 3

**The next part of home :) Warning for child abuse.**

_And they say  
__She's in the Class A Team  
__Stuck in her daydream  
__Been this way since 18_

Mycroft would visit every so often throughout the years since their mother's funeral and every time he was there, though Sherlock and his father's relationship was strained, there seemed to be no problems like before. The calls he used to receive from Sherlock ceased but Mycroft put this down to him becoming a teenager and wanting to distance himself from his family like many teenagers did. When Mycroft was 23 he was slowly working his way up the political ladder and was visiting less often. Sherlock had just turned 16 however and would be leaving for university shortly, so Mycroft took it upon himself to surprise him with a visit.

After arriving at the manor Mycroft tried opening the front door but found it locked. He no longer possessed a key to the house so went around to the back to the kitchen door and let himself in. In front of him was a scene that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Sherlock lay on the tiled floor with tears in his eyes, his hand held defensively in front of his face to shield himself against father who was standing over him red faced, his fist in the air. Sherlock spotted Mycroft and mouthed for help, but father had already started to punch him. To this day Mycroft is unsure exactly what happened next, he had been so overwhelmed with anger at the man before him. A moment later however he was no longer beating Sherlock but was instead holding a hand up to his own bloody nose. "Get out of here if you know what's good for you." Mycroft threatened darkly. His father regarded him hostilely for a moment, as if deciding if he should try to discipline him aswell, but decided against it and stormed out the door, presumably to the pub.

"How long has this been happening Sherlock?" Mycroft asked intently. Sherlock got up slowly; probably due to a broken rib.  
"Ever since you left" Sherlock replied before going up to his room and locking himself there.

Mycroft tried to talk to Sherlock time and time again after the incident, but was rebuffed. He dropped out of university in his third year without telling him, refusing to accept financial help, instead choosing to live in run down apartments in run down areas of the city. And then he disappeared off Mycroft's radar altogether, until he turned up overdosed on his front step. They never talked about what had happened in their childhood, it was an unspoken rule that they only ever talked about the present. One day Mycroft broke it. Sherlock was halfway through detoxing and was lying exhausted on the sofa. "I am sorry you know." He told him, looking straight into his eyes, the sincerity written in his own. "I know." Sherlock replied in a cracked voice. Mycroft supposed that was the closest he would get to forgiveness. If only he could forgive himself.

**Hope you liked :) Thank you to phanpiggy and eohippus for reviewing. Maybe you should follow their example! :P**


	16. Coming Clean:part 4

**Two chapters in a row, don't say I'm not good to you. Enjoy! Warning for mention of drug use.**

_But lately her face seems  
__Slowly sinking, wasting  
__Crumbling like pastries__  
They scream The worst things in life come free to us  
__And we're all under the upperhand  
__And go mad for a couple grams_

Sherlock was a pretty unmanageable person normally, but when detoxing he became downright impossible. Some days he would stay in bed all day and refuse to talk, others he would sit on the sofa restlessly tapping his foot, his body shaking, talking nineteen to the dozen. He would become depressed and moan that the world was boring and dull, and at night he would awake shouting from dreams that he would not reveal. There was also the memorable time that paranoia set in and Sherlock threw a kettle at him, claiming that he was trying to kill him.

When the detoxing was over Sherlock was tired and underweight but a good deal healthier than he had been 2 and a half weeks previously. He was through the worst stages of withdrawal so Mycroft decided to let him leave his house and live in the apartment he had bought for him. Sherlock was annoyed with the arrangement but his only other options were to live with Mycroft or on the streets again, both of which were unappealing. "It's only until I get enough money for my own place" He muttered to Mycroft in the car on the way to his new flat. Mycroft didn't say anything, it didn't matter as long as Sherlock was accepting his help.

After he had shown Sherlock the flat (he had took into consideration everything Sherlock would require in a desirable flat; centralLondon, spacious enough for all his clutter and with extremely tolerant neighbours) he turned to leave when Sherlock spoke suddenly "I appreciate it by the way." He blurted out. Mycroft just walked on, but he was smiling. Their relationship would maybe never be what it was before he had left, but maybe the only two Holmes left on the planet could salvage something like a friendship.

"By the way Mycroft, your diet needs some immediate work, you scoffed almost an entire bakery while I was staying at yours."

Or perhaps that was wishful thinking.

**Review and you get a cookie! :D**


	17. Need:part 3

**I am very, very sorry for not updating. When I went to plug in my laptop charger it started smoking and sparking so while I waited for a new one I had to use our family computer and try to rewrite this chapter, which might have worked except for the fact that there was always someone else on it. Anyway, charger's here now so will be uploading chapters as soon as possible. Enjoy! Warning for drug use.**

_An_d_ we don't want to go outside tonight  
__And in a pipe we fly to the Motherland  
__Or sell love to another man__ It's too cold outside  
__For angels to fly_

There was too much white.

White ceiling, white floors, white bed, white clothes. Sherlock felt like someone had hit him over the head with a hammer and all the blinding white wasn't helping the matter. He could hear a steady beeping coming from the right of him and shoes squeaking on polished floors in the distance. It didn't take a genius to guess that he was in a hospital.

He tried recalling the events of last night but everything was a mix of colour and shapes, mixing together to form incoherent pictures. He could remember nothing but the feeling of euphoria he felt once the drug had entered his system, and he wanted_ more. _He opened his eyes fully instead of squinting them against the harsh light and saw Mycroft was sitting in a chair to the left of his bed. He hurriedly closed his eyes again and pretended to be asleep but Mycroft saw easily through it. "Good afternoon dear brother." He said. Sherlock could hear the sarcastic smile in his voice. He opened his eyes and looked at his brother, who was sitting straight backed on the hard plastic chair, umbrella twirling in his hand.

"Had a good sleep?" Mycroft asked sarcastically.  
"As drug induced comas go, yes." Sherlock replied, annoyed at the croakiness of his voice. Mycroft's eyes hardened as he pointed to the chart at the end of his bed.  
"You overdosed on cocaine last night, you had to be rushed here to have your stomach pumped or you would have died. Anything you want to say about that?" He said, anger creeping into his voice.  
"I've had worse nights." Sherlock said airily, and was pleased to see Mycroft's eyes narrow as he tried to figure out if he was bluffing or not.

Mycroft started to lecture him about the stupidity and idiocy of his actions leading Sherlock to drift off into a daydream. He started to formulate plans about how to gain more of the pleasure inducing substances, promising to himself that he would be extremely careful to not let Mycroft get involved. He looked up at Mycroft mid rant and noticed how much he resembled an irate bullfrog. The image made him snicker which led Mycroft to stop his rambling and fix Sherlock with an extremely icy glare.  
"If you find it so very funny dear brother, perhaps I should put you under surveillance until I am convinced you aren't going to kill yourself." Mycroft told him, a glint in his eye as he saw the outrage in Sherlock's face.  
"You will do no such thing!" He exclaimed.  
"Well you obviously cannot be trusted to look after yourself." Mycroft stated. He softened his tone slightly before continuing. "Whatever you choose to believe Sherlock, I do care about you."  
"You lost the right to care long ago." Sherlock spat. "I would like to be left alone now." Mycroft began to argue but Sherlock cut him off. "Do you want me to call a nurse to remove you?"

Even though Mycroft knew Sherlock probably wouldn't call the nurse, and even if he did they would be easily convinced to let him stay, he heeded Sherlock's advice and left, leaving Sherlock alone.

He returned to his dorm the next day, craving the drugs even more. Everything felt so much more sluggish and grey without them. He opened his dorm door to a concerned Victor.  
"Hey mate, you all right?" He asked, his expression pityingly worried.  
"Of course, nothing serious." Sherlock said as he dropped down onto his bed.  
Victor decided not to comment on the obvious lie and instead muttered something along the lines of "Well if you need anything…" He turned back to his laptop, oblivious to Sherlock's stares as he tried to figure out how to approach the subject.  
"Victor." He said. The boy looked up. "Do you have any more?" He knew what he meant by this and hesitated.  
"Well…I don't really think you should have any more mate." He replied, deliberately avoiding eye contact with him. Sherlock eyes narrowed.  
"And why not?" He demanded.  
"I wouldn't want you ending up in hospital again do I?" He answered as if it was obvious.  
"I'll be more careful this time." Sherlock told him. He opened his mouth to argue but Sherlock got there first "And, I will pay £50 instead of £20." He added and was pleased to see Victor's eyes widen at the offer. He licked his lips nervously before going into his cupboard and producing a bag of white powder.  
"Just be careful, okay?" He said nervously as he handed the bag over and pocketed the note Sherlock gave him in return.

Sherlock continued to purchase drugs off of Victor until he dropped out of university, though he was not hard to replace. Sherlock would look back on him however and wonder if the university had decided to select a different roommate for him he wouldn't have went down the path in life he did. He supposed he would have probably found the form of escape on his own in due time, but a small part of him couldn't help but think that if a certain loud-mouthed boy hadn't let his roommate join in the fun on a whim, years of pain could have been prevented.

**Hope you liked :) thank you to bruderlein, phanpiggy, eohippus and Maddi Paige for reviewing! :D**


	18. Flying

**Hi :) Last ever chapter of A Team, thank you to everyone that's read or reviewed, means so much! Enjoy :D **

_Angels__ to fly_

Everyone in the world is a patchwork of the events and feelings in their lives, and Sherlock Holmes was no exception. He had lived a more colourful life than most, which was probably why he was a more colourful person. He was the different stages of his life combined. He was the young troubled boy who loved his older brother before he was abandoned. He was the high student with an annoying and perhaps life altering roommate. He was the homeless junkie who had a not quite friend called Angel. He was the wasted genius who would constantly run into a certain Detective Inspector. He was the detoxing brother who would defensively throw kettles. All the people he had been smashed together to create the consulting detective with an ex-military flat mate and was easily bored, who liked tea, who disliked idiots, who would help Lestrade in return for the times he had helped him, who was John Watson's best friend, who was Molly Hooper's crush, who was James Moriarty's nemesis, who was Mycroft Holmes's arch enemy and who never seemed to have enough milk.

If you had approached Sherlock at any previous time in his life and asked if he was happy (not that anyone bothered to) he would have most likely replied in the negative. But even thought the man was made up of all those unhappy people, he would now say yes. Because now he had John and multiple cases to keep his mind occupied, and he didn't need the drugs anymore. It was a simple sum for happiness and Sherlock chose to enjoy every minute of it, because you never know when something else might enter the equation.

_To fly_

As Sherlock looked over the edge he thanked (not God, he didn't believe in an almighty being that looked over the earth) some unknowable deity for the life he had. He was sincerely hoping he was going to continue it, but if he was even slightly off angle…his faked death might turn out real. He took a deep breath before calling John. He tried to stay calm but was failing badly. Even if he did survive, his happiness would surely be shattered, along with that of everyone who knew him and believed him to be dead. He would be forced to remain in hiding until he could eradicate every one of Moriarty's assassins. He tried to choke down his tears.

_To fly_

John was shouting his name through the mobile but Sherlock hung up and tossed the phone to the side. He deafened himself to John's protests, spread out his arms and fell. And all the different Sherlock's fell with him.

_For angels to die_

**I'm not going to lie, I wrote this while almost asleep so tell me if it doesn't make any sense :S Thank you so much to everyone that reviewed, special thanks to phanpiggy who reviewed almost every chapter of this :D If you wanna tell me what you think of the story, you know what to do! Goodbye!**


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